


Writing On The Wall

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Coffee Shops, Conversations, Dialogue Heavy, First Meetings, Gen, He's Also Pretentious and Talks A Lot, Imayoshi Is A Serial Killer, Implications, Reader Escapes An Unfortunate Fate, Reader Is A Crime Writer, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22993192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "You raise your head and catch the inscrutable gaze of a dark-haired male pinning you to the table. He's wearing a crooked smile and something about the resplendent shine reflecting off of his eyeglasses makes the floes of boreal vigilance tiptoe down your spine. He's not bad to look at, a bit high-profile considering the state of the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop and its habitues, but handsome nonetheless." Reader has questions about murder and Imayoshi has all the answers.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Writing On The Wall

The sun had barely come to light when you forced yourself past the creaky door hinges and over the peeling vinyl floors of your favorite coffee shop. The building is run-down and gloomy compared to its competition, but something is owed to its unpretentious and utilitarian appearance. It's folksy and warm, albeit a bit derelict; it makes for good ambiance. However, no amount of thought-provoking framework is enough to inspire motivation when your mind is as vacant as the white blankness dominating your laptop screen.

It's already been an hour since your arrival and you've done scarcely more than burn the moisture out of your eyes with words that won't focus. The smell of fresh coffee beans is a pleasant distraction as you absentmindedly run your fingers over the edges of a book balanced precariously in your grip. The half-consumed beverage in front of you has long gone cold and you find yourself wondering when you started to dislike yourself so much that you would drag your body out of the comforts of your bed and into the humdrum labors of animation—especially this early in the morning—and for what? The security of a table marred with old scars and an underside decorated with age-old chewing gum? Surely not. It must be the comfortable silence of a perpetually slow business to compliment an abortive operation, you think with an air of depressive amusement.

“That's an interesting read for this hour.”

You raise your head and catch the inscrutable gaze of a dark-haired male pinning you to the table. He's wearing a crooked smile and something about the resplendent shine reflecting off of his eyeglasses makes the floes of boreal vigilance tiptoe down your spine. He's not bad to look at, a bit high-profile considering the state of the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop and its habitues, but handsome nonetheless. You arch an eyebrow and rove your gaze over his body in an attempt to stave off possible confrontation. He appears unaffected, to say the least, and no sooner than you narrow your eyes in derision, he's taking up the space across from you.

“Are you actually interested in the details of the rot squad or are you simply trying to complete the look?” He nods in the direction of the ink spilling out across your skin and the black stitches of your attire. It's not the first time you've been addressed for your aesthetic so you don't bother to hide the look of irritation that overtakes your features.

“I'm a crime writer,” you say passively, hoping that the open admission will scratch whatever itch lay behind his potential mockery.

“Really?” he asks, his voice warm and smooth like sloe gin. His beetle-black eyes flicker with interest and it's plain to see that your attempt to waylay his conversation has failed. “Interesting. Is this your first attempt at writing a novel?” The young male—you'd put him in his mid-twenties—looks back at your borrowed copy of _Human Body Decomposition_ and dampens his lips. “Or did you get it wrong the first time? You'll be hard up if you get those kinds of details wrong.” He rotates a cup of coffee in his hands, one you hadn't notice before, and smiles another wolfish grin. “It's funny, isn't it . . . people don't give a shit about technicalities until you get them wrong. Then they know every specific in the book, so to speak.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” you ask him, losing the edge of your apprehension to curiosity.

“I've had my fair share of experiences,” he answers vaguely, lifting his shoulders in the barest hint of a shrug. He seems to contemplate something for a moment before continuing, his tone almost ominous in its regularity. “I've written a few expositions on the noble rot. The beginning of my college dissertation focused primarily on the obligatory correlation between murder and religious freedom.”

“That's a bold statement. Do you have any evidence to back it up?”

“Evidence is merely art in the substantiation of the claim. The plaint of blasphemy is irreverent when introduced to a topic such as religion but necessary in a craft as heinous as murder. But that's neither here nor there; that's a conversation for another time.” He lifts his mug to his lips and tips back the murky beverage. You watch his throat work on a swallow then follow the pink tip of his tongue as it traces the shape of his mouth.

He sets the mug back down on the scarred table with a dull thud and presents his hand to you in a gesture of offering. “Imayoshi,” he says. “My apologies for not introducing myself sooner.”

“____,” you answer, almost involuntarily. You close your fingers around his own briefly, ready to draw away from the contact of the newly named stranger when he drags the pad of his thumb out across the back of your hand. The prolonged touch isn't enough to incite fear or call for concern but held a moment too long to be considered your average greeting.

“Ah, like Ageyev,” he says with an air of undue arrogance. “Fitting.”

You ignore his remark and lean into the support of the chair at your back. Something about him leaves you with a strange taste on your tongue but at the same time, there's something desirable about the wealth of knowledge he seems to possess. Even if the latter is mere ostentation for show, you're not against calling his bluff. As it stands, the edges of his egotism could use some softening. You consider your options, eyes shifting between your blank laptop screen and the tired book in front of you. You exhale a sigh, then: “I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I'm comfortable talking to people I don't know but I could sincerely use some help. You seem to understand the importance of detail and the last thing I want to do is get my placement wrong. I'd like to aim as close to perfection as possible and since you didn't shudder at my hobby, well, you just might be the guy to help me get there. Can I ask you some questions?”

Imayoshi's mouth curves and he flashes you the white slash of a smile. “There's nothing better than perfection—sublime artworks that stick around long after you're dead. The oldest sanctuaries often have said works, hidden away in the nethermost shadows for only the tutelary genius, invisible to us, to see. The same goes for murder. The deepest trenches of our transgression stand in the way to life, destroys our faith, and crumbles the foundation of our dogma. Yet, there's something almost necessary in the destruction to prosper. That in which we cannot see, that in which we are not meant to understand, is most often the perfection we seek. Only when you feed upon the shadow of perfection can you truly rejoice in the fruits of your labor. But chasing that shadow questionably personifies madness.”

You stare across the table, your lips parted and brow furrowed to complete the image of perplexity that writes itself out across your face. Imayoshi catches your expression and emits a jarring chuckle that plucks at the nerves climbing the staircase of your spine.

“I'm rambling again,” he says as if to himself. “I tend to do that when I feel passionate about something. To answer your question, yes. I'll grace you with my presence for a while. What is it you want to know?” He fits two of his fingers around his mug's handle and leans forward to press his elbow in against the table you hadn't expected to share.

“Are you always this full of yourself?” you blurt, then smile in a way that's just shy of apologetic.

“I prefer confidence,” he tells you with an air of amusement and a brief pause. “If you're directly referring to my personality, then let me take this chance to disappoint you. I may be more resolute and self-assured than those you're familiar with. I have quite a relationship with fortune and a decent history with negotiation. In other words, I have a keen sense of ruthless determination and I know how to get what I want. Perhaps this level of prosperity has played a part in my, should we say, strong personality? That said, men seldom achieve success by partnering with modesty. I reckon if that were the case, paired with my hairsplitting mentality, I would have long been discovered by now.”

“You really like to hear yourself speak, don't you?” you needle, your bottom lip curving under the glint of a silver hoop.

Imayoshi teases a smile as the dusty yellow light from above turns his lenses opaque. “A loquacious guest is more likely to entertain than a taciturn one. If I hadn't been so forthright, you wouldn't be sitting here with your partner in crime.”

“I'm starting to think there's a lot more truth in that statement than I care to know,” you mutter, missing the flicker that dances behind the dark of Imayoshi's eyes.

“Figuratively speaking, if that were the case, would it matter?” Imayoshi tilts his head a fraction but it's enough that his dark strands glance the sharp contour of his cheek. “Let's call a spade a spade, ____. At this moment, you need me and I need to kill some time before my next appointment. It doesn't really matter who I am as long as you achieve your end goal. That's human nature, after all. So go on, ask me what it is you want to know.”

You feel as if you're dancing with the devil but something tells you that this man has a repository of the information you seek. So you persevere with the unspoken promise that you keep your wits about you.

Sure enough, after two more cups of coffee, a restroom break, and a slew of questions later, you have a mess of details and an amalgamation of barely legible notes in front of you. You feel confident that with a little research you'll be able to confirm what Imayoshi's told you and begin the work you've longed to start.

Imayoshi rises from the table and stretches his arms toward the ceiling. The hem of his shirt lifts just enough to reveal a thin scar that curves over his hip and disappears into his jeans. You don't feel that it's appropriate to question its origin so you take another swig of coffee instead.

“I quite enjoyed your company today, ____. If not for my appointment, I'd have invited you back to my place for lunch. I think you'd appreciate my bizarre collection of oddities. Some things, however, are not meant to be.” He takes you by the hand and presses his cool lips to your skin in a chaste kiss. “Good luck with the novel. It's not easy to catch the eye of the judge in a sea of carbon but who knows? Maybe I'll even write my own novel one day.”

You watch him turn away from the table you shared only moments ago and walk toward the exit. He disappears without another word but you stare at the door long after he's gone, his silhouette burning like a tattoo behind your eyes. When you finally tear your gaze away from the coffee shop's antique door, you realize that the excitement you felt for your project has ebbed into something more sinister. You can't parse an exact reason for it, much less put a name to it, but your next sip of coffee has no taste and you're left feeling as though you've just been holding hands with a parasite.

You push the feeling down to the low of your belly and pour your focus into your hobby. It's only natural, you tell yourself, considering the subject matter.

_It's only natural for someone to know so much about murder._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
